


Let Your Redemption Be Through Her

by Arkeiryn



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Difference, F/M, Gen, Kinky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-26
Updated: 2011-01-26
Packaged: 2017-10-15 02:31:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/156112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arkeiryn/pseuds/Arkeiryn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He kneels before her because there is no way he wouldn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let Your Redemption Be Through Her

**Author's Note:**

> 2,700 words. Written for the 2010/2011 [hp_kinkfest](http://community.livejournal.com/hp_kinkfest/) on Livejournal, using [deathjunke](http://deathjunke.livejournal.com/)'s prompt. This can be taken as epilogue compliant or not, depending on how you feel, but it works for both. Also this has not been beta'd, as life got in the way of finding a beta. Enjoy?

The knock on the door is loud and insistent, and Fenrir lifts his head up nervously, his nose twitching even though he is not in wolf form. His Mistress had told him to stay put on his bed, though, and aside from his head, he is as still as a statue.

He can’t see the front door, but his hearing is sharper than most, even in his human form. He hears his Mistress walk towards it, her footsteps light. He hears the door open with a slight creak, and the low murmur of voices. He lowers his head as the voices approach, and the door to his room opens slowly.

“Fenrir?” At the sound of his Mistress’ voice, he raises his head. Her eyes are bright and blue, her hair golden in the sunlight that streams through the window. She looks like she is made of marble, her skin pale and glowing, yet he knows it is as soft as silk to touch. She isn’t wearing the latest in fashion – in fact, her choice of jewellery is frankly ridiculous – but that does not matter. She looks like a Goddess in whatever she wears.

He stands up in one smooth motion, graceful even with his bandaged broken arm. Stepping forwards, he kneels before her because there was no way he wouldn’t. She had taken him out of the forest, where he would have died, injured, in human form and without his pack to protect him, and had done her best to nurse him back to health. She had ignored the fact that he was a wanted criminal, that he had attacked people who she considered friends. She had kept him here rather than sending him to Azkaban, where he had been sentenced to be years ago.

She looks as young as the girl he remembers in the dungeons of Malfoy Manor, but he had been living in the wild for at least five years – at least seventy full moons. He had known there was something different about her then, though. He remembers thinking that she would make a great werewolf, should she let herself be turned.

And that is the main reason that he is kneeling before her now; not because she has saved him from death and kept him from Azkaban, but because he knows that if she was wolf, she could rule them all. There is a core of steel beneath that naïve exterior that everyone saw, a core that had manifested itself in many ways that he had both heard about and witnessed himself; her bravery in fighting in the Department of Mysteries, her steadfastness during the second rise of the Dark Lord and her imprisonment.  She is the embodiment of Alpha: that which most werewolves he had met aspired to be, that which he had believed he was until she had stepped into his life again.

It is that reason, and that reason alone, which means that he has not attacked her, has not run away back into the woods despite how much she has helped him already. If it had been anyone else that had saved him and done their best to heal him, he would have expressed his gratitude with teeth and nails. But she is his Mistress, and he will not let a single hair on her head to be injured.

“Fenrir,” she repeats, her voice softening slightly, and he feels her hand touch the top of his head, just briefly. In the past, he would have been disgusted at himself with the pleasure that floods through him, in knowing that he had pleased someone else. But he can no more feel embarrassed about her than feel embarrassed about his needs to eat or drink.

“This is Rolf.” It is only then that he remembers the other person who has entered the room, and looked around his Mistress to see who this ‘Rolf’ is. A tall, slightly nervous looking man meets his gaze briefly, before dropping it to the floor. “His mother is a mediwitch,” his Mistress continues, “and he has learned a lot from her. He can help you, and he’s discreet.”

“Thank you, Mistress.” Fenrir shifts his gaze back to her face. Her lips are curved in a smile, and he cannot help but give her a small grin in return.

At a gesture from her hand, he stands, moving back to his bed until he feels the mattress against the back of his knees. She moves further into the room, and he can see that the man, Rolf, has brought a bag in with him. He stands, uncertain, in the doorway, and she turns to look at him.

“Come on, Rolf.” There is a laugh in her voice, although it is not malicious. “Fenrir won’t bite.”

The man stepped forwards and dropped the bag in his hands to the floor before opening it. Fenrir sees that it is full of potions and vials of different liquids. A wave of Rolf’s wand towards Fenrir’s broken arm makes him frown, and judging by the look on Rolf’s face, whatever diagnostic spell he had cast had not given him the result that wanted.

“Why did you have to go and rescue a werewolf?” he mutters to himself as he busies himself with the vials inside the bag. Fenrir’s Mistress rests her hand on the top of his head, like she had on Fenrir’s own, just for an instant. To his surprise, Fenrir found jealousy rearing its ugly head, and struggled not to snarl. He had thought that he was the only one who belonged to his Mistress. He didn’t realise that there might be another.

How would this change things? It didn’t change the fact that she was his Mistress, and he was hers to own, but... He focuses his eyes on her as Rolf finally picks up two vials from his case and mixes them together, murmuring a spell over them. Fenrir doesn’t care what the words are. All he cares about is what is going to happen after this.

That’s the problem, though. He has not talked to his Mistress about this. He had served her, in any way that she wanted him to, doing everything he could in his injured condition to please her, and now he realises that there is someone else; that someone else got there first, and now he is being fixed and she won’t need to look after him anymore. As soon as his arm is mended, she has done her duty, done all that she took him from the forest to do, and he doesn’t want to go back to the trees and the dark, not when he has found her, found the Alpha he has always needed.

She can see the panic in his eyes, he can tell, and he feels guilty for the frown that creases her face. But there is no time for her to ask what is wrong, and there is no time for him to do any final act of service before she decides that her duty is over and he can be freed from her presence. Rolf gives him a cup and tells him to down it in one. He doesn’t even taste it, although it doesn’t smell the most pleasant, and the last thing he sees are his Mistress’ eyes as he falls backwards onto his bed, into darkness.

~~~

It is dark when he opens his eyes, and someone is sitting in the chair next to him, slow breathing alerting him to their presence. It takes him a while to work out that it is his Mistress; that she is still there and has not abandoned him yet. He is grateful, more than grateful, that he gets more time spent with her. But she is obviously asleep, in the chair next to him, and waking her up is not what he wants.

Carefully, he levers himself out of the bed, taking a brief moment to marvel at his arm. Rolf has done a good job, with whatever potions he concocted. It feels a little sore, but perfectly strong enough to lift his Mistress out of her chair and gently place her in the bed, before wrapping the blankets around her.

Satisfied that she is comfortable in her sleep, Fenrir leaves the room. His stomach is growling now that he is fully awake, and a trip to the kitchen is called for before he takes up his vigil at his Mistress’ side. However, when he walks through the door, he is greeted by the sight of Rolf, a cup of tea in his hand and a tired look on his face.

Rolf stands up as soon as Fenrir enters, his eyes wide, but Fenrir ignores him. His Mistress’ other partner, or whatever Rolf was to her, was of no consequence to him right now. His main priorities were to get himself fed and then curl up in the chair next to her bed and watch for her to wake, so he could say goodbye, and thank you.

The other man starts moving around the kitchen gingerly as Fenrir stalks towards the cupboards and raids them for food. Plate piled high, Fenrir sits down on the table and tucks into the breads, meats and cheeses that he had acquired. He is surprised, though, when Rolf sits back down and passes a cup of tea across the table towards him.

“Thanks,” he says after a brief puzzled look at the other man, who shrugged.

“I figure you’re important to Luna, so I should make an effort.” Fenrir hasn’t heard Rolf properly speak before, not to him, at any rate, although he knows logically the other man was fine at talking to his Mistress, so it takes him a while to realise what he had said.

“I’m important?” he asks.

“Of course.” Rolf frowns. “Why else do you think she spent so much time here?”

“I... don’t know.” Fenrir thinks back to the days when it was just the two of them, when she had been hostile to him, when he had finally convinced her that he would do anything for her, and she had let him serve her. He remembered the first time he had cooked for her, the first time he had massaged her back after she had come back from the travelling and research she had originally come to Albania for... and the first time he had tasted her. “I just assumed she was doing it because she thought she had to,” he says at last.

“What do you mean?”

“Has she told you how,” he gestures with his hand, “this started?” Rolf shrugs, which Fenrir takes to mean a no, although it’s hardly conclusive evidence of the other man’s ignorance. He explains anyway. “It was full moon, and I and my pack attacked her. She was lucky, in that there was a herd of thestrals nearby, and they came to her thestral’s aide when it screamed. One of them kicked me, knocked me out, gave me concussion and broke my arm. I assumed she felt guilty about that.”

Rolf shrugs. “I suppose that might have been her main motivation. But she cares about you. She’s been getting rather upset that, after all this time she’s spent with you, that you’re just going to run back into the woods and leave her, never see her again.”

“Why would I do that?” Fenrir actually laughs. “She’s my... I couldn’t leave her unless she ordered it. I thought she wouldn’t want me around after this, especially not with you in the picture.”

There is a long pause, and he slowly starts eating again. It isn’t until he is finished, and standing up to leave, before Rolf speaks once more.

“Talk to Luna. I think she would rather love to take you home with us.”

He stops in the doorway. “Why? She told me, right at the beginning... I’m sick, I’m twisted, I’m a murderer and I attacked her and her thestral. I should be in Azkaban, I should never have been in Albania anyway, it’s only by some stroke of luck that I managed to escape before they locked me up forever. I am not worthy of her.”

“You need redemption.” Rolf puts down his mostly empty cup and finally looks Fenrir straight in the eyes, without flinching. “Why not let your redemption be through her?”

~~~

No one knows about their relationship; no one in the public eye, anyway. Everyone knows about her and Rolf, about their jobs, about their children. No one knows about the house servant, older than both of them, torn and scarred, who keeps the house when they are away, who sleeps at the foot of their marital bed and has given his life over to serving her. But that is how his Mistress wants it, and Fenrir can see how this is the best option.

He has found something more than his Alpha when he let himself be taken back to England with them, in his wolf form so that they could get him through the boarder without raising questions about why they were harbouring a criminal (although travelling with a werewolf during the night of the full moon led to a host of other problems). He has found redemption too, more than he would ever have found in Azkaban, or in the psychiatric ward in St Mungos, or anywhere else he can think of. It was meeting her that had made him start to regret his past actions, because they had hurt her and upset her, although not directly. Then Lorcan and Lysander had come along, the children of his Mistress, and he had realised that children were not just his perfect prey, but that they could a source of entirely different joy.

They are playing now, in the garden, him and the boys. His Mistress and her husband have gone out for the day, and Fenrir doesn’t mind being relegated to Nanny when it is his Mistress’ boys in question. They are beautiful and perfect, and every protective instinct that he had never had before meeting her grew tenfold when they had been born. As he watches them now, though, he hears the doors behind him open, and smells the scent that means the most to him. For whatever reason, the couple are back, and early.

The boys, upon seeing their parents, race towards them, their tiny throats screaming cries of delight. Fenrir follows more sedately, but it is not for lack of excitement. His Mistress has come home early, and there is suddenly spare time in the day where usually there would be no time for her at all. One look at her face, and he knows exactly what she needs, and one look at the man next to her tells him that Rolf knows it too.

They are a perfect team. While Rolf takes the children, leading them into the garden and into more play time, Fenrir takes his Mistress into the house. It is not long before they have arrived at the bathroom, and it only takes a minute for the bath to fill with hot water and bubbles.

It is exactly what his Mistress wants. She slides into the bath, her eyes closing, and Fenrir hands her whatever she desires and marvels once again at the fact that she is allowing him to be here. Even after the years he has spent here, with her, he still finds it amazing that she did not abandon him in the forests where he first attacked her.

When she finally steps out of the bath, a Goddess robed in scented water, Fenrir drops to his knees in front of her. He kneels because there is no way he wouldn’t, and she gazes down at him, her hand resting on top of his head.

“Fenrir,” she says, and nothing more.

“My Alpha.” He rarely calls her that, never doing so in front of Rolf, and it always makes her smile.

“Stop talking, my dear.” He can hear the smile in her voice. “Let’s put your tongue to better use.” And he complies, because he always will, because she is his Alpha, his Mistress, and he cannot defy her for the world.

**Author's Note:**

> ... I have never written this pairing before. I have no idea why, when I saw the prompt, I decided that I _really_ wanted to write it. But there you go.


End file.
